The Little Things
by ShineSomeLight
Summary: If there is one thing he’s good at, it’s being patient." One-shot story from Artie's POV; takes place sometime after "Wheels".


**Author's Note:** I do not own Glee or any of its characters. This is my first time venturing into the world of fan fiction (or creative writing, really, to be honest), but this little narrative was just itching to be taken from my head and brought to life, so I decided to go for it. Any sort of constructive criticism is *beyond* appreciated, so go for it! =) Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy!

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If there is one thing he's good at, it's being patient.

Alright, in all fairness, there are quite a number of things Artie is good at: algebra problems, remembering the album names and corresponding release years of his favorite bands, rolling up steep hills without any trace of strain. But near the top of the list of his most developed abilities is definitely being patient.

After experiencing such a drastic physical alteration as he endured, you sort of have no choice. When your body's functionality is flipped on its head (or hands, if you'd care to be a bit more specific), there are three simple aspects to survival: effort, practice, and patience. The effort and practice get you going, but the patience, that was key. After his accident, the littlest things seemed like the most daunting tasks: dressing himself, picking up a dropped pencil, getting into and out of bed. It was only because of his acquired resilience that acts like those didn't even receive a second thought from him anymore. Effort and practice will allow you to accomplish all those goals for which you thought you didn't have the strength to complete, but it's through patience that those acts become into second nature. By being patient, living with his broken body eventually became as simple and thoughtless as breathing.

Artie knew that this patience is what would get him through this rough spot with Tina. That would be their saving grace. If he waited long enough, it would be as if that dismal afternoon never happened, like the fallout of her confession was some hazy, long-forgotten nightmare. It was a bit different this time, however. Instead of waiting for his body to adapt to something, he was waiting for his emotions to catch up with his head.

Looks. There were always looks. He would catch her eye so naturally, so frequently, it was like they were programmed to know when the other was glancing in their direction. He would catch her eye across the lunch table, amid an unending drabble from Kurt about his new skincare regimen or an emphatic rant from Mercedes about Rachel's intolerable personality. He wouldn't even be trying to look at Tina, and yet somehow his eyes would settle right where she was situated—just in time to meet her gaze. It was as if there was some sort of magnetism between the two sets of eyes that couldn't be fought. No matter what, no matter where, no matter how unintentional, he always managed to find her eyes.

Artie assumed this was one of those little things that got them to where they were in terms of closeness. Most people assume that the major changes in life are the result of big, game-time choices, life-altering moments that are all at once dropped on your lap. Ironically, despite his lifelong confinement to a wheelchair as the product of an unexpected car crash, Artie knew better. He knew it was the little, quiet moments that gradually all fused together and became something much larger in a fit of cosmic synergy. It was sort of like music. Separately, each note makes its own distinct sound, but only when a bunch of notes are layered together can you understand the depth of the harmony. After all, when you really broke it down, it wasn't the erratic swerving of that middle-aged man's sedan that confined him to his wheelchair. It was the casual decision to indulge in a fourth drink before heading home from Happy Hour.

That's how his friendship with Tina developed. There was never some big confrontation with the bullying jocks where they bravely defended each other's honor, nor was there a sweeping moment of immediate closeness where the cripple and the girl with the stutter bonded over their dual alienation. The formation of their relationship was quite typical. When freshman year arrived they both wound up McKinley High, which wasn't a standout event, considering the unimpressive size of their hometown. From there, they shared a couple classes and even more smiles, and that's how they began their relationship. It was at this point those little moments, those significant little moments, started creeping up on them. She started stepping behind him to push him down the hallways as casually as she would toss her backpack over her right shoulder while leaving class, and just as naturally he released his grip on his chair's wheels and trusted her to guide him. He automatically grabbed her soda can at lunch to pop the top for her without even being asked, seeing as how over the years his hands grew to be quite strong and adept, perfect for little tasks like this, and he knew one of her biggest pet peeves was chipping newly painted fingernails. These added up, leading not only to the creation of a mismatched-but-logical pair of best friends, but also to mutual blushes that accompanied those earnest smiles, and hugs that lasted seconds longer than ones you would share with someone who purely just a friend.

That's why he knew the only way he'd forgive her was if he waited long enough. As much as he would have loved to, he couldn't shove his frustration and hurt out of his heart in one fell swoop—that wouldn't be a tiny moment. That would be a huge change. And their friendship didn't do "huge;" it never did. He would have to take this little by little, as slowly as he needed. Artie knew this is where his patience would come into play, and he was grateful he was so skilled in this area. He overreacted to her confession of her artificial stutter. He knew it the second those words, hot with shocked anger, came tumbling out of his mouth. Tina _never_ saw his chair; he'd been a paraplegic long enough to recognize that look of pity in someone's eyes when they looked down at him, no matter how quickly it passed across their gaze. Never once did Artie find that offensive sympathy in Tina's eyes, which was easily the largest component of their "tiny" friendship. And he repaid her by acting like all he ever heard was her stutter. That wasn't the truth—God, it wasn't even close to the truth. But her confession was so startling that he didn't bother to appreciate her absolute trust in him (out of all the people in world she could have come clean to, she chose him), all he felt was the heavy sting of her years-long lie. And after that kiss! That small, soft kiss that made every single bit of him tingle with contentment, as if to sigh out, "Finally." Maybe that was part of the reason for his extreme reaction. One second his heart was leaping out of his chest in love-struck elation, and the next it was broken at his feet at the revelation of her deception. In the minute moments of their relationship, throughout all those years, she had perfectly crafted a mammoth lie. She never meant to deceive him so completely and he knew that in his heart of hearts. She couldn't have possibly known that stammering out her introduction to him the first week of freshman year would come to do such damage to their bond. But no matter how unintentionally, he was woven into that web.

When he thought about it, calmly, rationally, Artie knew his reaction was a product of the heat of the moment, and it certainly wasn't anything he couldn't get past. The wonderful thing his and Tina's friendship had built up into was far greater than any rift they would ever face together. But when he _didn't _think about it in a logical way, he found the upset was still there. You can't rationalize away feelings, and regardless of his deep caring for his best friend (maybe, in the future, something more, as he had grown to hope), the truth was he was lied to for years.

So, those feelings would have to be deconstructed. The painful emotions her dishonesty elicited had to be broken down, little by little, a reversal of how the lie itself was built up. This was where the patience came in. The decomposition of his pain would be slow, but it would happen. He could feel it happening every day, unhurried and naturally. Every morning Artie would wake up and find the heavy weight in his stomach an ounce or so lighter. They would be alright. Sure, if he thought about it too much and worked himself up, he would practically sweat with fear over the thought of losing what they'd created and, even more, what they were on the verge of becoming. Tina had grown to be a warm, stable component of his everyday life, and the notion that he would possibly have to live without her was, well, horrifying. But when he was quiet and still, and kept the "What ifs" and "But maybes" far at bay, his gut told him with an instinctual certainty that they could—and would—make it back to where they were before that confrontation, make it back home. They would talk about everything one day, eventually, until they ran out of words. But that came later. For now, it was all about the patience.

Until he got to that point of unequivocal forgiveness, Artie knew this shakiness that had already settled between them during the past couple weeks would remain. When their group accompanied each other to their classes during the school day, instead of falling into step behind him and pushing him along, Tina walked next to his wheelchair in the halls, pulling her hand back whenever she realized it had absentmindedly crept its way up to the handle. She never chose the seat next to him in Glee anymore, instead opting for a chair one or two seats over: never too far away from him, but not nearly as close as before. It was clear that Tina was nervous about how Artie felt about her, and as much as he would have liked to console her and ensure her it was OK—that they'd be OK—he couldn't make that leap yet. He needed to resist the impulse to hold her close and comfort her, indulging in the racing of his heartbeat that always happened when they were close like that, and just stick to those small steps that would inevitably cure everything.

When he found himself lost in thought, worried that just maybe she wouldn't be there waiting at the end of that long journey composed of those tiny, tiny steps, Artie instinctively turned his head and found his eyes suddenly locked with hers. They stayed like that for the briefest of moments, each recognizing the weight and comfort of other's gaze, and then they both returned their focus to the front of the chorus room. An almost imperceptibly small, sure smile turned up the corners of Artie's lips, as he replayed the tiny exchange in his head and found the solace he needed.

Looks. There were always looks.


End file.
